And then she heard a low thump and a soft, scraping sound from the herb garden, again, and yet again, in an easy rhythm. Unmindful of her undress, she leaned out to seek a better view. The cool stone pressed against her bare waist.
It was Garth.
For the space of two heartbeats, sheer lust poured over her loins like hot honey, sharpening her senses, making her fingers curl upon the ledge.
Then she realized what he was doing, and her yearning congealed instantly into a cold, bitter knot.
She watched in horror as the brute shoved the spade deep into the soft earth of the garden, her precious herb garden, and wrenched it aside, making the soil well up in a growing mound.
Hurt, then anger, flashed through her as swiftly as fire through dry rushes. How dare he ransack her garden again? Hadn’t he done enough damage? They were her herbs. And it was her garden. He had no right to play God, ripping out perfectly healthy plants simply because they offended him. Even the Abbot hadn’t been so audacious.
Grinding her teeth in fury, she wheeled from the ledge and tore her cloak from its peg so fiercely that she ripped the shoulder. Cursing, she wrapped it about her and felt along the shadowed side of her bed for her boots. It was far from decent attire, but she had to hurry. She had to stop the plunderer in the garden before it was completely laid waste.
The wet grass squeaked beneath her as she hastened across the courtyard. The glowing hedges made eerie shadows along the ground, and the mist spiraled away from her swift feet.
Then she slowed. Seething, she came up behind him in silence, wickedly hoping he would jump ten feet with guilt when she asked him just what in the devil’s name he was doing.
But as she rolled the choice words around in her mind, she chanced to notice the seedlings arranged beside him. Wormwood. Monkshood. Hellebore. Her “devil’s herbs.” She watched in stunned surprise as Garth set the spade aside and eased the wormwood into one of the holes he’d dug. Using his hands, he scooped dirt around the plant, packing it down with a firm touch. He moved on to the monkshood. Then the hellebore.
Faith, he was planting them.
Her throat tightened. Her eyes grew watery. All the caustic accusations she’d prepared splintered into meaningless syllables. Her heart slowly filled with a wistful longing.
She wanted this quiet hero—this man who gladly held the hand of a sick child, who spoke God’s word as if he’d written it himself, who crept to the garden in the middle of the night and used his own two hands to replace her precious plants.
He was her champion. And they belonged together. She’d known it from the first time they’d met, among the jasmine, when she’d sensed his goodness, his strength. And nothing could change that—not the mask of indifference he chose to show her, not his friar’s trappings, not the fact that he was sworn to chastity.
She flicked her tongue lightly over her bottom lip.
She should go back to bed.
There was no reason to disturb Garth. Besides, now that she saw the true nature of his deed, she was ashamed of her misplaced suspicions.
Aye, she should go.
She watched him as his hands cupped the mound of earth as tenderly as a lover caressing a breast. Her nipples stiffened against the rough wool of her cloak. She closed her eyes against a potent wave of desire and backed slowly away.
Garth heard footsteps behind him. He’d known someone was there for some time now. But he wasn’t worried. The spade was in arm’s reach. When the stalker took another soft step, he spun toward the sound, bringing up the shovel before him in a swift arc that would have impressed even his warrior brothers.
“Shite!”
Garth froze in mid-swing, cataloguing the scene before him in a series of quick flashes. Cynthia. Fear. Wild hair. Stumbling. Bare flesh. Wide eyes. Dark cloak. Pale skin. Bare flesh…bare flesh…
He averted his eyes and snapped his head down. He lowered the spade, but he couldn’t let go of it. His fists were clenched too tightly around its handle. His unruly heart raced, and he could draw no air into his lungs. He didn’t dare look again. Now he understood the terrible quandary of Lot’s wife as he fought the urge to lift his eyes to the wonder before him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Surely it was only his lewd imagination. Lady Cynthia didn’t wander the castle grounds in the middle of the night, half-naked. That perfect, creamy, dark-tipped breast peeping from her cloak had been only a creation of his mind. He took a ragged breath and slowly lifted his gaze to her again.
She tightly clasped the front of her cloak.
“I—I,” she stuttered. “I…didn’t mean to disturb you. I only heard the noise and…”
She was naked beneath that cloak. He knew it. And she knew that he knew it.
“I…I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
He nodded once. He, too, could find no relief in his bed.
The moonlight glowed upon her bright curls. Her breath, quick and shallow, formed tiny mists upon the chill air.
“Th-thank you,” she said, “for…” She nodded to indicate the herb garden.
“It was the least I could—“
“They’re truly not…not devil’s herbs,” she assured him.
He nodded.
She took a step forward. “You’re very kind.”
He resisted the impulse to raise the spade in defense.
She lowered her eyes, then lifted them languidly to his. “I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking…I kept thinking of you,” she blurted out recklessly.
His jaw tightened. How could he tell her that she haunted his every waking moment as well? That he’d paced the floor of his quarters for nearly an hour, obsessed by her? That he’d come to the herb garden to free his guilty soul and to relinquish all claims he yearned to demand of her?
He couldn’t—not while the moonlight veiled her in ethereal white, not while she stood vulnerably bare beneath a single layer of wool.
She took another step toward him. Her lips trembled with her boldness. Her eyes beckoned to him.
“I kept thinking about your eyes,” she said breathlessly. “How they’re the color of pine in a winter forest.”
She advanced slowly. There was nowhere for him to go, not without crushing the herbs he’d just planted.
“And your hands,” she murmured, reaching out to graze the back of his white knuckles with a finger. “Like a warrior’s, but…gentle.”
His hands were anything but gentle now where they clasped the shovel in a death grip. She stood close now, close enough for the curls of mist escaping his lips to wreathe her moonlit head. The spade was the last obstruction separating them.
“But your kiss…” she whispered, her eyelids dipping shyly, sensuously.
Cold sweat flecked his forehead. Aye, he remembered.
“So soft,” she breathed.
Her mouth was so inviting, so voluptuous…
“So sweet.”
Growling in his throat, he cast the shovel aside.
CHAPTER 14
Who reached for whom he didn’t know, or care. One moment, mist and moonlight separated them. The next, they flowed together like droplets of quicksilver. He hauled her to him, all cloak and curls and succulent mouth. And she clung to him as if she feared he’d break away. But faith, the Pope himself couldn’t have pulled him from her at this moment.
Her lips were moist and eager. Sweet mulled breath flowed from between them and into his open mouth. Her soft mewls of desire taunted his wits, stretched his nerves tauter than a bowstring. She darted her tongue across his top lip, and hot lightning snaked through his body. Blood surged through his veins. He slanted his mouth hungrily against hers, devouring her with the pent-up passion of four long, chaste years. She delved her hands into his hair, and his fingers embossed the contours of her back, arching her toward him.
The mist thickened around them, but all he could feel was the searing heat of Cynthia. All he could think about was the supple flesh concealed beneath her cloak, just a single la
yer away. Overcome with avarice, never stopping for breath, he hauled her with him into the concealing shadows of the castle wall.
He was past hope now, past reason. With eager fingers, he followed the line of her lowest rib forward until his thumbs met at the juncture of her cloak. An inch of her skin lay exposed there, a sliver of satin against the rough wool. Gasping against her mouth, he teased the passage wider. She gave no resistance, thrusting her breasts full against him.
His loins ached. Liquid need engorged him until he feared he would burst. Slowly, he pulled the edges of her cloak back, exposing more silken flesh to his touch. Then he let his fingers climb upward, beneath the wool, till he found the lower curve of her breasts. His breath whistled in between his teeth. He continued the ascent with the backs of his knuckles until he brushed the hardened tips nestled under the cloak.
She sucked in a hard, startled breath, but she voiced no protest, pressing her hips forward against him instead, inflaming his already blazing staff and driving him mad with desire.
Cynthia shivered, not with the cold, but with sheer animal need, as the pads of Garth’s thumbs swept over the sensitive peaks of her breasts. She could feel his staff harden, crushed recklessly against her belly. She moaned as he ravished her mouth, grazing her teeth and teasing her tongue. Never had she been kissed like this. Her husband’s kisses, loving though they were, had never moved her to such an ecstasy of yearning. The curls between her legs moistened as desire squeezed the juices from her. Every part of her body strained to couple with his, like lightning drawn to lightning.
And then he kissed her neck, the spot just below her ear where her pulse beat wildly. She arced against him, clutching great handfuls of his thick hair, pleading wordlessly for more.
He gave her more, panting heavily against her ear, cupping her breasts, licking ravenously at her throat, nipping her shoulder. And then he parted her cloak to trail kisses across her bosom.
The wet touch of his tongue lapping at her nipple shot an exquisite current of desire through her body. It sizzled through her loins and charged every inch of her skin. He groaned as he sucked gently there, and the sound seemed to echo through her, rasping across her soul like fine silk.
A moment more and he might have touched her warm, secret woman’s place, swelling with longing. She might have sought out the firm velvet length of him with a questing hand. A moment more and they might have consummated their passion then and there in the garden, by the smoldering light of the moon.
But piercing the cool silence of the night, a voice suddenly rang across the courtyard.
“My lady?”
Elspeth!
They separated as quickly as split timber.
“Lady Cynthia?” Elspeth picked her way across the dew-bejeweled grass as if she feared to break the shimmering diamonds.
Cynthia snapped her cloak tightly about her neck.
“What is it, El?” Hell, her voice was little more than a croak.
“Whatever are you doing out of doors on such a night, my lady?”
Cynthia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, erasing any trace of his kiss, and stepped cautiously into the light, certain the maid could see the flush of desire on her cheek and heard the frenzied beating of her heart.
“When I didn’t find you in your bed, well, Roger and I, we looked high and low for you. What are you doing, lass?”
Cynthia’s gaze flitted over to the spade. “Planting.”
“Planting?”
“Aye.” She picked up the spade. “The chaplain and I…” She turned to the niche beside the wall where Garth was. But he’d disappeared, evaporated like mist. “We…we brought back some new herbs from the village. I wanted to be sure to plant them straight away.”
Elspeth shook her head. “Well, come to bed now, lass. The plants will wait till morning. With all the sickness about, I won’t have you taking a chill.”
Cynthia nodded and scanned the empty shadows of the castle wall one last time. A part of her was relieved that Garth had escaped undetected. But a part of her was disappointed. And for that part of her, it promised to be a very long night.
Garth sat on his bed, hanging his head. He couldn’t stay at Wendeville. That much was painfully obvious. Cynthia might have extricated herself from the embarrassing situation tonight. She might have given Elspeth a plausible explanation for her presence in the garden in the middle of the night. But there was no excuse for him.
He couldn’t fool himself. He knew that if he stayed, it wouldn’t be the last time he tangled with Cynthia. Whether it was by some enchantment she’d cast upon him or his own damnably weak will, the woman was as addictive as opium wine. He’d crossed over a line. He’d tasted her. And now he only wanted more.
But he couldn’t subject her to such disgrace. He cared too much for her. Besides, any affair between them was doomed to fail. Even if he became one of the clergy who allowed themselves the company of women, he knew he was unfit as a man. Sooner or later, she’d discover that.
He blamed himself. This whole awkward situation was his fault, all of it. He was a priest. It was up to him to control his passions. And tonight, he’d failed miserably.
Outside, the moon began its descent. The fog thickened, blurring the line between the treetops and the sky.
He stuffed his few possessions—quills, ink, parchment, books, candles—into his satchel, and looked one last time around the chamber that would be his no more.
With a heavy heart, he stepped into the night. She’d forget him within a week, he was sure. As for Garth, he’d fall back into the comfortable routine of the monastery—praying, copying, teaching. Eventually, Lady Cynthia and Wendeville Castle would recede like a pleasant, brief dream. He told himself the lie and tried to believe it.
The Abbot shivered impatiently in the crofter’s cottage. The hovel provided little comfort against the chill of the night. He was eager to return to his hearth at Charing. But his spy had assured him she brought important news.
“He…replanted the herbs?” he asked, blinking.
The young girl’s teeth chattered, but she managed a nod in the small pool of light cast by the single candle he held.
“The chaplain?” he repeated, unable to fathom it.
He’d selected Garth de Ware for Wendeville because of the man’s humility and his lack of ambition. Garth could hardly pose a threat to his plans. After all, the fool had thrown away his own chance at wealth and power for the seclusion of an impoverished monastery.
“You’re certain?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Aye, Father,” she said, bobbing her head like a nervous chicken. “And there’s…something else.”
The lass was reluctant to speak. She fidgeted with the edges of her cloak and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Biting back peevishness, he reached out with false tolerance and gently cupped her chin, lifting it. Her skin was frigid to the touch. “Don’t be afraid, child. It’s God’s work you do.”
Her chin quaked, and she spoke barely above a whisper. “The chaplain…he…I saw him…with Lady Cynthia.”
His fingers tightened on her jaw. Nay. It couldn’t be. “Aye?” he goaded her. “Aye?”
“They were…kissing,” she breathed. Moisture filled her eyes, whether of shame or lust, he wasn’t certain. “He…he opened her cloak, and he…touched her…” Her hands fluttered awkwardly before her.
The Abbot struggled to keep the impatient edge from his voice. “He touched her bosom?”
She ducked her head.
“Go on,” he said.
“He…he kissed her…there.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “Elspeth came. He ran away.” She looked up hopefully, her soul unburdened at last. He could see by the glistening in her eyes that she wanted her reward now. But it would have to wait for another time. Her cold flesh and chattering teeth held no appeal for him tonight. Besides, he had much to think about.
He chewed at his lip. It seemed h
e’d misjudged the humble friar. It was too early to tell exactly how. But there were two possibilities. Either the man’s flesh was pitifully weak or Garth de Ware was perpetrating a play for power even more complex than his own.
The Abbot chuckled in self-mockery. It appeared Garth de Ware would either be the ruin of him or the designer of the most opportune twist of fate he’d ever fallen heir to.
Someone was shaking the bed. Garth couldn’t wake up enough to make them stop. He heard voices, but the low, somber murmurs were indistinguishable, as if a thick blanket enveloped him, separating him from the rest of the world. And yet he was cold, colder than he’d ever been. Cold to the marrow of his bones.
He drifted like a snowflake at the will of the winter wind, now floating toward the surface of awareness, now delving toward the frozen wasteland of oblivion. How long he wafted over the endless, icy landscapes, he didn’t know. Time had no meaning.
Once, his eyes fluttered open for just an instant, and he was aware of a vaguely familiar, comforting, parchment-colored expanse flickering above his head. And once, cool fingers rested upon his forehead, soothing him even as they chilled his shivering flesh. But before he could grasp and hold the recognizable images, he was plunged back into alien vistas of fathomless snow.
A moment, or hours, or days later, the sharp nick of a blade in his arm spurred him from his uneasy slumber. His eyes opened to narrow slits. On the inner side of his elbow, blood welled from a small cut and dripped slowly into a pewter bowl. He drew a shallow, shuddering breath. He had to stop the blood, stanch it with something, bind the wound. But he was too weak to move. Currents of panic rose around him, and the waters of unconsciousness closed over his head again.
When he awoke, his arm was bandaged with linen. The limb looked pale and foreign. He couldn’t move it. A rhythmic rasping rattled his ears, his own labored breathing. Every inch of his body ached. Still frozen with cold, he was too feeble even to shiver.
Knights of de Ware 03 - My Hero Page 19